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rabbit-flaying · 5 months ago

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Humanity's Collector

Genres: Fantasy and Science Fiction

Content Warnings: Dehumanization, Kidnapping, Casual Violence, Claustrophobia, Mild Cosmic Horror

Note: I want to get back to positing my writing on Tumblr. Maybe someone will recognize this. Probably not.

"Gosh you're pretty," Glade cooed, its voice sounding a bit like Harlow's mother, a bit like a brook, and a bit like paper being crumpled up and cast aside.

Harlow looked around desperately. For he had to find escape from the strange realm he had woken in. All manner of miscellany took up space in the void around him. It looked like a storage closet, if every storage closet in the world were connected together, and the possessions of kings and paupers alike were granted permission to socialize.

He ignored Glade and stood from his wicker chair, quickly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the realm and number of objects held within it.

Above him the color white stretched out into infinitum. True white, not the dirty kind found in snow and house paint. It hurt his head, making his temples throb and blood vessels contract, so he looked away from it.

"Where am I?" Harlow demanded. "Who are you?"

"My name is Glade," it answered. "You're in my home."

Harlow made the mistake of eye contact. Glade's eyes shone with the light of galaxies, a dazzling rainbow of nebulae, planets, and suns. The entirety of the universe, and many more beyond it, seemed tucked away within the perfectly spherical marbles buried in the putty-like flesh of its glowing face.

He finally broke away from the hypnotic sight, his puny brain unable to handle the visions within. How much time had passed, every one of his neurons firing at once in an attempt to process the cosmos of Glade's eyes? Seconds? Minutes? Hours, even?

He needed answers, yet he did not know the right questions. Glade didn't seem human, instead a creature from a story book. And this monolithic hoard couldn't possibly be real.

"Your home?" he asked in a strangled sort of voice, staring pointedly at the patch of ebony wood ground he stood upon.

"I'm a collector," Glade explained, running their sharp nails, painted with glitter and adorned with scraps of emeralds, through Harlow's silky hair.

"What do you collect, exactly?"

Harlow watched a glittering blue beetle crawl across the ground, finding a hiding spot underneath a red and purple feathered ball gown displayed on a copper mannequin.

"All sorts of things," Glade said, flapping its hands wildly in a mimicry of human excitement. "Your world is fascinating. I remember when your kind learned how to create fire and tame animals. You have grown so much since then. I needed to have one of you for my own. Your creations are not enough any more."

Harlow carefully took in Glade's appearance, avoiding its hypnotic eyes. Despite its alien nature- as clear to Harlow as it would have been to his ancestors as they huddled around campfires concocting stories to explain their world- it chose to appear humanoid, though not precisely human.

Glade was the kind of thing that would hide in a child's closet, and speak to them in a parental fashion, loathing the knowledge that the child would never be believed no matter how loudly they spoke of its existence.

Its iridescent skin glimmered, changing colors with every movement, no matter how slight, as stunning light produced by the void poured over its body. Its proportions sat beyond the human view of normal, uncanny like an airbrushed model, but far more monstrous. Behind its smiling lips were two rows of porcelain and copper teeth, slicing perfectly through its pale gray gums.

Delicate jewelry of book pressed flowers and dragonfly wings adorned its warped elven ears. It was clad in a fur cape, the stitched together pelts of numerous small animals, fur colors clashing and asymmetrical. Its heels, as thin as sewing needles and seemingly impossible to walk on, granted half a foot of height to their seven-foot frame.

"Don't worry," Glade continued. "I'll take care of you. I've been collecting humanity's creations for millenia. You may use what you find around you to its fullest extent."

"I want to go home," Harlow said, finally realizing that this was not a dream that could be banished away by opening his eyes and pouring himself a cup of black coffee mixed with salt. "Please let me go. I'm sure there's someone who would love to be here. But I like my life on earth."

"But I wanted you."

Glade hugged Harlow tightly, mimicking how it had observed humans comforting one another. Its skin had none of Harlow's warmth, and he found this hug as uncomfortable as cuddling with a marble statue would have been, if he had ever been bold enough to break the omnipresent rule of not touching museum exhibits.

Harlow closed his eyes. "I have to be dreaming," he said, his lie cloaked in a defeated sort of tone. "This can't be real."

"Of course this isn't real," Glade said, holding its newest acquisition out at arm's length. "But it isn't a dream either. You are within my home, far outside of your universe."

"Please send me back. I don't know why I'm here, or how, but I can't do this."

"Yes you can," Glade said. "It's easy. I will take care of you, and you will be my plaything. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Harlow broke away from Glade, and took off walking. There had to be an exit. Everything had an exit, whether it be a school or a church or a corner shop. The exits were always there, saddened as they were that so many people were afraid to break the rules and only took advantage of their ability to leave at certain appointed hours.

The void still seemed to stretch on into infinity, swelling larger and larger the farther and farther Harlow walked. But everything had an end if you traveled far enough to find it. Even the deserts that passed past any human line of sight and the mountains that seemed too high to ever climb over.

But now Harlow was applying rules from his original plane of existence to the alien one he had been so rudely whisked away to. And that was very foolish indeed.

"No, that doesn't sound nice," he said angrily, as Glade easily matched his pace, wearing a concerned expression it had stolen from a grandparent not too long ago. "I'm leaving."

"You can't leave. Because I didn't steal you. The original Harlow Finch Echowood is still in his home, playing solitaire and chatting away to his cat. You belong here with me."

Harlow stopped in his tracks, sitting down on an ancient jeweled throne. It had held countless kings before him, but he respected them not, only using their seat to keep from collapsing in shock.

Glade smiled. "We are going to have so much fun, and no one will ever know you to be here. Come now, I have food prepared for you."

"I can't eat your food," Harlow argued, remembering what he had learned from a book that lived in his elementary school library. It had worn a shiny green cover, and the name Susan Macintosh was written inside the front cover before his own. "I'd never be able to leave if I did that."

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for some of my cousins," Glade said. "You will eat, or you will starve. And you're never leaving because you belong to me. It doesn't matter what you choose to do."

Harlow stood up, his dizziness replaced with a red-hot temper. "I hate you! Let me go! You can't keep me here!"

Glade looked deeply wounded, but Harlow knew within the depths of his very soul, that it was only mimicry of human emotion.

"I couldn't send you back, even if I wanted to. Then there would be two Harlow Finch Echowoods trying to live your singular and unique life."

"I don't believe you. I'm still me. I still remember my life."

"You are an exact duplication of the original Harlow Finch Echowood. You have the same soul and the same mind and the same DNA. Of course you still remember."

With every passing moment, Harlow's belief in Glade's words only grew. Any attempt to fight against them was snuffed out by diluted logic and the omnipresent knowledge that he was still alive. He breathed. Blood rushed through his veins. More importantly, his mind continued to produce thoughts and feelings to process the outside world.

"Just combine us again or something," Harlow begged. "I want to go home. I never asked to be brought here."

"I cannot combine nor reconstruct nor mend. I can only make copies of beautiful things, and things not quite so beautiful."

Glade spread its arms, gesturing to its hoard of human objects collected in centuries long past. The treasures of every empire ever risen and fallen was present, both the spectacular and the mundane side by side in a discordant visual melody.

"Why me?" Harlow asked. "I didn't do anything."

"You speak as though this is a punishment. I have simply added you to my collection." It flicked the tears from his face, scratching him with its nail. "Now come, I have made you good food."

Glade gripped Harlow's arm and dragged him far away, weaving throughout its collection at a brisk and even pace, avoiding falling into the gaps between pieces of floor, which only infinitum laid below.

Soon enough, they came upon a small 1950s era kitchen. Two marble counters, a dirty stove, and a teacup filled sink formed a corner tucked away between a row of unplugged televisions and a huge crooked stalagmite growing from the polished tile floor.

Glade opened the oven and pulled out a pan of fresh bread. Its hands were bare, but unburnt by the hot metal dish. It grabbed a knife from one of the many drawers and cut through the bread without displacing a single crumb, before laying the slice out on a neon green plate.

"Eat while it's still hot," Glade said with a bright smile. It was a well used expression by those of Harlow's time who prepared meals for other humans, and it planned to repeat it often.

In its time spent with Harlow, its teeth had dulled significantly, and its gums had taken on a pale shade of pink. Why it had not mimicked a perfect human before meeting Harlow was beyond him, and it seemed perfectly capable of warping its appearance to become more like him.

He reluctantly tried the seed filled bread, finding it to be heavenly and soft. Faerie food or not, he scarfed it down, suddenly famished beyond all reason.

"Thank you," he said automatically.

"I have much food. It is scattered about my home, and easy to find if you look. It never spoils, so you may feast on it as you please."

Harlow sighed, and clambered up to sit on the counter. An act of rebellion his twelve year old self would have been proud of, even if Glade didn't give him the smallest sliver of annoyance, having no understand of manners itself.

"I'm really never leaving…" he said, his voice like a half-deflated party balloon still adored by a kid who refused point blank to throw it in the trash. "If that's it then, what happens when you get bored of me?"

"I never get bored of my playthings."

"How big is this place? Is it a universe, or a realm, or a room in some alien mansion?" Harlow thought these reasonable enough questions, considering his circumstances.

"An infinite pocket dimension," Glade replied. "If you travel far enough, my collection begins to grow thin. There is a boundary of where my possessions lie, and after that is the abyss. It is nearly impossible to find one's way back from nothingness."

"I hate it here," Harlow said, as though he had not made this feeling quite clear before. "I want to be around other people. Not you."

"I will bring you some," Glade promised. "Allow me a few minutes to collect them. You shall have a companion, as all humans crave, or more than one if it suits your fancy."

Harlow froze, debating his own morality versus the loneliness soon to bloom from this isolation. How could he allow more people to be stuck in this horrible purgatory of preserved humanity, just so he could have someone to talk to? The truth? He couldn't bear it. At least, not yet.

"No," he begged, the first tears ever created in this pocket dimension blooming in his eyes. "Please, don't put anyone else through this. I'll be good. I won't complain. I promise."

"Oh, how you confuse me." Something odd bloomed over Glade's face, a poor mimicry of a half-understood human emotion. "I see… Come along then."

Harlow hopped off the counter and followed Glade as it walked under a vast canopy of safety pinned together curtains fashioned from every familiar fabric and exotic cloth created by the hands of humanity.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Glade called in a sing-song voice. "I've brought a new trinket. This one can talk, so I'm sure you'll like it."

People approached Glade and Harlow from the shadows. Well, not people, exactly. They were like Glade, monstrous and wonderful, stepping straight from a story book and into Harlow's waking nightmare. There stood more figures than Harlow could keep track of, intent on viewing the treasure Glade had discovered.

"I finally brought a human home," Glade said proudly, if such a being were capable of pride. "Isn't it just a doll?"

Harlow flinched as numerous hands and insect-like feelers crept over his body, Glade's companions examining him all too closely. He felt as though he had jumped into those foam pits he had so loved as a young child, touched in all directions yet floating in oddly empty space.

"Get off of me," he demanded, forgetting his promise not to complain as he shoved the nearest figure away. "Stop it. I said stop!"

Harlow tried to break free of them, pushing and shoving, even striking at them with closed fists and elbows. But he was pulled back, the creatures murmuring in appreciation on how bizarrely Glade's newest acquisition behaved.

"Stop touching me," Harlow cried. "Please. I hate being crowded. What are you doing?"

"What is it doing?" the specter asked. It brought its freezing yet intangible hand to Harlow's face, as though to seize his tears.

"That is so weird," another remarked, clicking its pincers in an oddly specific pattern.

The different figures murmured to each other, formulating explanations.

"Is it because we're touching it?"

"It's water… I think."

"He's crying," Glade explained, flapping its hands in mimicry of human excitement. "It means it's upset. Isn't it the most delightful thing?"

"I hate you," Harlow said thickly, as tears continued to stream down his reddened cheeks. "I want to go home."

"You are so repetitive," Glade remarked, before perfectly imitating Harlow's voice. "I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home."

Harlow finally relented. As the nightmarish figures poked and prodded him, discussing him amongst each other, he only hoped that they would soon grow bored and move on to newer shinier pursuits.

How could he stand to do this for the rest of eternity?

#Writing #Creative writing #Writblr #Short story #Humanity's Collector #Fantasy #Fantasy writing #Original fiction #Science fiction #Science fiction writing #Cosmic horror #Whump #Whumpblr #Whump writing #Nonhuman whumper #Human whumpee

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chic-a-gigot · 2 years ago

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La Mode illustrée, no. 35, 27 août 1882, Paris. Ustensiles de table, modèles de chez Testevuide, Maison de l'Aluminium, boulevard Poissonnière, 21. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Le no. 187 est une pince à sucre en bronze d'aluminium (aluminum bronze sugar tongs), du prix de 6 fr. 50 c.

No. 526. Cuillère à confiture et fruits à l'eau-de-vie (Spoon for jam and fruit brandy): 3 fr.

No. 530. Cuillère à thé (forme russe) (Teaspoon (Russian form)): 2 fr. 25 c.

No. 171. Cuillère à sucre repercée à jours (Sugar spoon pierced with holes): 7 fr. 50 c.

No. 560. Ciseau à raisin (Grape scissors): 10 fr.

No. 214. Cuillère à punch avec manche d'ébène (Punch ladle with ebony handle): 7 fr.

No. 402. Couteau à fruits, avec manche japonais et lame en bronze d'aluminium (Fruit knife, with Japanese handle and aluminum bronze blade): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 159. Même couteau entièrement en bronze d'aluminium (Fruit knife entirely in aluminum bronze): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 158. Couvert à dessert en même métal (Dessert cutlery in in aluminum bronze): 5 fr.

No. 186. Pelle à tartre repercée à jours (Spatula pierced with holes): 15 fr. 55 c.

No. 173. Cuillère à verre d'eau (Glass of water spoon): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 525. Cuillère à fraises (Strawberry spoon): 12 fr.

No. 399. Couteau à fromage avec manche d'ivoire (Cheese knife with ivory handle): 10 fr.

No. 170. Cuillère à compote (Compote spoon): 7 fr.

No. 192. Casse-noix simple ou double (Single or double nutcracker): 9 fr.

No. 185. Pelle à glace (Ice shovel): 10 fr.

No. 164. Cuillère à café grand modèle uni (Coffee spoon, large plain model): 1 fr. 50 c.

No. 676. Cuillère, à glace (Ice cream spoon): 1 fr. 75.

No. 520. Cuillère à café de forme russe (Coffee spoon, Russian form): 2 fr.

No. 720. Compotier guilloché à perle et cristal gravé (Guilloche dish with pearl and engraved crystal): 30 fr.

No. 545. Passe-thé repercé à jours (Perforated tea strainer): 3 fr.

No. 424. Surtout de table argenté avec cornet en cristal taillé (Silver table centerpiece with cut crystal cornet): 75 fr.

Nos. 410 à 413. Service à bonbons (Candy service): 15 fr.

No. 675. Sucrier de table, à pied rond avec cuillère repercée (Table sugar bowl, round foot with pierced spoon): 37 fr. 75 c.

No. 561. Pince à sucre en forme d'oiseau (très-commodé) (Bird-shaped sugar tongs (very convenient)): 7 à 9 fr.

No. 735. Cafetière Louis XVI guillochée avec deux écussons (Louis XVI guilloché coffee pot with two escutcheons): 55 à 60 fr.

No. 478. Tasse à café avec soucoupe (Coffee cup with saucer): 20 fr.

Corbeille pour milieu de table (Basket for middle of table): 200 fr.

—

Le luxe et l'élégance dans le service de la table ont marché d'un pas égal avec le luxe de la toilette et de l'habillement. Il serait choquant, en effet, de voir des maîtresses de maison vêtues de beaux atours, assises devant une table dressée avec incurie ou négligence. Quand on ne peut posséder des services en argent très-complet, on y supplée en employant des métaux moins coûteux. Ce que l'on recherche avant tout, c'est l'aspect soigné de la table, c'est aussi l'emploi d'objets spéciaux pour chaque usage: servir du thé ou du café dans une théière ou dans une cafetière de porcelaine est une hérésie en matière de confort élégant. On a porté cette recherche dans tous les détails. Pour les fruits à l'eau-de-vie et pour les confitures, on a fabriqué des petites louches microscopiques, cuillères rondes pareilles à celles que l'on emploie pour servir le potage. On a des cuillères à compotes, des pelles à tartes, des cuillères à sucre, à punch, à verre d'eau, etc., et beaucoup d'etc., ainsi que nos abonnées pourront s'en convaincre en examinant la collection d'ustensiles de table que nous plaçons sous leurs yeux. Les numéros du catalogue de la Maison de l'Aluminium accompagnent chaque objet, ce qui abrège les recherches et résout les doutes quant aux prix.

—

Luxury and elegance in the service of the table have gone hand in hand with the luxury of toilet and clothing. It would indeed be shocking to see hostesses dressed in finery, seated before a table set carelessly or negligently. When one cannot possess very complete silver services, one makes up for it by employing less costly metals. What we are looking for above all is the neat appearance of the table, it is also the use of special objects for each use: serving tea or coffee in a teapot or in a porcelain coffee maker is heresy when it comes to stylish comfort. We carried out this research in all the details. For fruits in eau-de-vie and for jams, small microscopic ladles were made, round spoons similar to those used to serve soup. We have compote spoons, pie scoops, sugar spoons, punch spoons, glass of water spoons, etc., and a lot of etc., as our subscribers will be able to convince themselves of by examining the collection of utensils that we place before their eyes. The catalog numbers of the Maison de l'Aluminium accompany each object, which shortens searches and resolves doubts about prices.

#La Mode illustrée #19th century #1880s #1882 #on this day #August 27 #periodical #fashion #cutlery

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spliffywhiffy · 7 months ago

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Foot Goddess Tournament!

After a great start, the two infamous stink models, went head to head and you guys voted for @Stinkfeetstella as your winner so she moves onto the next round!

Next up is ebony foot model @Queenkristina vs @Madsoles_1. Although Kristina hasn’t had much view time on her compared to Maddy, don’t let that detour you too much. Kristina can get her socks to smell pretty strong although I know from experience, Maddy actually does have some pretty stinky feet!

#foot smelling #feetsmelling #stinkyfeet #feetsniff #feetsmother #foot sniffing #footgoddess #foot soles #smellyfeet #bare foot

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my-chaos-radio · 1 year ago

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youtube

Release: March 9, 2009

Lyrics:

Hey I'm in love

My fingers keep on clicking

To the beating of my heart

Hey I can't stop my feet

Ebony and Ivory and dancing

In the street

Hey it's cause of you

The world is in a crazy hazy hue

My heart is beating like a jungle drum

Man you got me burnin'

I'm the moment between

The striking and the fire

Hey read my lips

'Cause all they say is

Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss

No it won't ever stop

My hands are in the air

Yes I'm in love

And so onburuburobummbummbumm

My heart is beating like a jungle drum

Songwriter:

Sidney Joseph Bechet / Zutty Singleton

SongFacts:

“Jungle Drum” is the third single from Icelandic singer-songwriter Emilíana Torrini’s third album, “Me and Armini”. It was released as a digital download on March 9, 2009 and later as a CD single in Germany on June 19, 2009.

Critics received the song very positively; Popmatters reviewer Spencer Tricker called "Jungle Drum" the album's "catchiest song" (alongside "Big Jumps"), "as good as the Fisherman's Woman singles". He also praised the song for having "an irresistible chorus with some completely unexpected interludes." Matthew Allard of ARTISTdirect stated that the song "was intended to be an iPhone advertisement". Clickmusic reviewer Francis Jolley called the song "a lively, fun little gem reminiscent of Nancy Sinatra in her heyday" and "infectious Scandinavian pop." Both Popmatters and Clickmusic reviews praised the song's rhythm section, calling it impossible "not to tap your foot along."

In 2009 she was also seen in the TV show “Germany's Next Top Model”. As a result, the song gained great popularity in German-speaking countries. It was scheduled to appear in the dance video game Just Dance 3, but did not appear for unknown reasons.

In 2010, the track was used as the theme song in a video created for the Icelandic government's official campaign "Inspired by Iceland" to attract tourists to Iceland.

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dankusner · 20 days ago

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Inside Lenny Kravitz’s Regal Paris Refuge

The rock star-designer has fashioned a spiritual tribute to family and friends inside this historic home

By Dana Thomas

A 1940’s German disco ball presides over the Chaufferie (Boiler Room) party space, which is furnished with vintage bistro tables and chairs from the Saint-Ouen Flea Market.

Superstar musician Lenny Kravitz has loved Paris since he first landed there in 1989, at 25, to promote his debut album, Let Love Rule.

Finally, in the early 2000s, he felt it was time to find a pied-à-terre:

“a little apartment, maybe on the Seine—one bedroom, two bedrooms, maximum—where I could write and hang out,” he recalls.

“One day, the real estate agent says, ‘I have something. It’s not what you’re looking for, but you need to see it.’ ”

“It” was the grand mansion of Countess Anne d’Ornano, the widowed former mayor of Deauville, a 1920s confection set on a leafy cul-de-sac next to a clutch of embassies in the conservative 16th arrondissement.

With her children grown, the countess found herself more at her Norman estate, with poetic gardens by Louis Benech, than in the Paris house, and had decided to sell.

“The agent said: ‘It’s not on the market yet, and this kind of thing only comes around once in a generation,’ ” Kravitz continues.

“I pull up, she points at the building, I said, ‘Okay, what floor?’ thinking it’s an apartment building. And she says, ‘It’s the whole thing.’ I said, ‘No, no, no, no, absolutely not.’ ‘Please, just go inside and look at it.’ I walked in and said, ‘This is my house.’ Spiritually, I knew.”

Lenny Kravitz, wearing a vintage jacket, Coût de la Liberté jeans, and a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, atop a 1970s coffee table in the Grand Salon.

There was much to be done to convert the stately manor from a French aristocrat’s city residence to an American rocker’s crash pad, where he could spend half the year recording new music in a home studio, recovering from European tours, and spending time with Zoë, his now-36-year-old actor-model-filmmaker daughter with his former wife, actor Lisa Bonet. He spends the other half of the year at his compound in Eleuthera, Bahamas, and on occasion visits a ranch he owns in Brazil (AD, May 2019).

The garden façade of the early-20th-century Hôtel Particulier in Paris’s 16th arrondissement.

But Kravitz had the skills and the tools to make that transformation happen:

In 2003, he founded Kravitz Design, a studio that specializes in commercial and residential interiors, branding, and creative collaborations.

Over the years, the AD100 firm has worked with such corporate clients as Leica, Dom Pérignon, CB2, and Sushi Shop on various projects.

Five years ago, he partnered with Steinway & Sons to produce the Kravitz Grand, a limited-edition of handcrafted pianos in hard maple, Madagascar ebony, and bronze, with African-style wood carvings on the case and legs.

One sits at the foot of the sweeping staircase in his soaring entry hall, across from Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Untitled (Black Figure) from 1984.

Dressed in a black leather jacket, faded Nina Hagen T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and standing in his stockinged feet—no shoes in the house, thank you very much—Kravitz pads over to the Steinway and plays a few chords.

The notes gently reverberate off the vanilla stuc pierre (stone stucco) walls. “The sound in here is beautiful,” he says. “Gorgeous.”

A circa 1970 Brutalist wall-hung sideboard by Paul Evans on the grand stair landing.

On the grand stair landing, a pair of Jules Heumann chairs faces a Brutalist wall-hung sideboard by Paul Evans.

Songye carved mask; photograph by Leonard Freed; 17th-century Dutch mirror; Baccarat sconces.

In the primary suite a Louis XVI mirror hangs behind a 1970s bedroom set by Guido Faleschini for I4 Mariani.

Custom mudcloth bedcover from Mali; Baccarat chandelier; vintage Berber rugs.

A circa 1975 chair by Philippe Hiquily and an Angelo Mangiarotti side table stand in the corner of a guest bath.

Kravitz’s rich cultural mélange is rooted in his upbringing in New York City:

the son of NBC News producer Sy Kravitz and actress Roxie Roker, he spent his youth shuttling between his parents’ apartment near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and his maternal grandparents’ home in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

“Two completely different worlds,” he says.

And it was these two worlds—the Beaux Arts formality of the Upper East Side and the cozy homeyness of the American Southern-Bahamian household in Brooklyn—that formed Kravitz’s design point of view.

“I’d call it ‘soulful elegance,’ ” he says, settling into one of a pair of plush bouclé-upholstered Studio Glustin “Scarface” armchairs in the library, a jewel-box of a room, with creamy espresso-brown-painted boiseries and bookshelves laden with art books, Kravitz’s Grammy awards, Muhammad Ali’s Adidas lace-up boxing boots from his final fight in Nassau—the Drama in Bahama—in 1981, and several pairs of the Godfather of Soul James Brown’s boots and shoes.

“The whole thing of walking in someone’s shoes and their journey,” Kravitz muses.

A portrait of Kravitz’s godmother Diahann Carroll by Geoffrey Holder hangs in a corner of the library where a Studio Glustin chair and Giorgio Montani sofa surround a pair of Paul Kingma tables.

A 1970s gilt hand foot chair sculpture by Pedro Friedeberg stands in the Primary bath.

In the dining room, Afra & Tobia Scarpa Africa chairs line the sides, and Emmanuelle peacock chairs stand at either end of a Karl Springer table.

A photo portrait of Kravitz’s grandfather Albert Roker hangs above a Paul Evans sideboard. Baccarat chandelier.

He settles deeper into the chair, a turmeric-ginger shot in a thimble-sized crystal coupe sitting before him on one of two Paul Kingma–designed Brutalist cast-concrete-and-resin coffee tables.

A mod poster that had been in his parents’ East 82nd Street flat when he was a kid hangs on the wall.

“ ‘Soulful elegance’ means it’s designed, curated, balanced, not too minimal, not too maximalist,” he explains.

“It’s comfortable, clearly. But also chic. It’s got a lot of ethnic and African elements mixed with European, because I love that balance of African, European, and Afrofuturism mixed with midcentury pieces. I love things that are extremely glamorous and also extremely brutal.”

Things like Richard Avedon’s iconic portrait of Marilyn Monroe in a plunging black sequin gown, set upon a Lella and Massimo Vignelli slab-like Ambiguità console adjacent to the upstairs landing.

Or Ubald Klug’s 1970s buttery leather Terrazza landscape sofa for de Sede in the Lounge—Kravitz’s louche subterranean screening room—across from a swaggering brass-and-polished-steel coffee table with a rotating center.

A 1970s mirror by Vittorio Introini hangs above a Tee console by J. Wade Beam in the Sous Sol Hall. The floral-print shirt and multicolor fur-lined vest were owned and worn by Jimi Hendrix.

Kravitz reclines on a Terrazza sofa by Ubald Klug for de Sede. Model 1705 chair by Warren Platner for Knoll; coffee table with rotating center by Massimo Papiri; artwork by Andy Warhol; Gold Gun lamp by Philippe Starck.

Items from or depicting family and friends are always near, like memento mori, be it the portrait of his godmother Diahann Carroll in the library, or the framed black-and-white publicity shots of his mother in her namesake Roxie Room, an elegant den next to the grand salon, or the framed Miles Davis leather jacket, a gift from another godmother, Davis’s former wife Cicely Tyson, days after the great trumpeter died, in the basement’s memorabilia gallery outside Kravitz’s studio.

Or the most important piece in the house: the handsome Ruven Afanador portrait of Kravitz’s grandfather, Albert Roker, above New Hope School designer Paul Evans’s Sculpted Front sideboard in the dining room.

The wine room is decorated with a mix of artworks and objects including a contemporary Russian oil painting of a woman and child, a James Mont table lamp, and an 18th-century mirror.

“Ruven was doing the cover for my fourth album, Circus, and we shot it all in Nassau,” Kravitz recalls.

“I put my grandfather in one of my suits, and Ruven took a bunch of portraits of him. He is why I am here, and why I’m in this house, why my mom went to Howard University in DC and studied at the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford-upon-Avon and became who she became, then I became who I became, and Zoë became who she became. It’s all him. So he presides over the table at all times.”

The most Kravitz room of all, however, is “the Chaufferie”: a two-story boiler room in the darkest depths of the house, where he has created a sort of speakeasy, with old French bistro tables from the Saint-Ouen flea market, a 1940s German-made disco ball he picked up in Los Angeles, an ornate chrome car grill embedded in the brick wall, and “a great sound system,” he notes.

“My daughter’s been having a lot of soirées here.”

Now dubbed the Hôtel de Roxie, after his mother, this once unlikely house clearly embodies Kravitz’s life and design philosophies.

Spinning around on his be-socked feet, jamming his hands in his slouchy jeans’ pockets, he flashes a big smile—“Now you’ve got the vibe.”

A monumental Murano glass Poliedri light fixture by Carlo Scarpa for Venini salvaged from a theater in St. Paul, Minnesota, hangs above a Giorgio Montani sofa, Gabriella Crespi coffee table, and Kravitz design ottoman in the primary suite’s television lounge.

A portrait of Marilyn Monroe by Richard Avedon stands atop an Ambiguità Console table by Lella and Massimo Vignelli in a guest suite foyer.

A carved wood sculpture by the Mumuye people of Nigeria stands in the garden.

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